conjuntos

I am beginning to see how my mother and I are alike. Both easily brought to tears — she, often drawn to a quiet fury, dwelling deep in her stomach and only surfacing to stream down her cheeks, a softly rolling soul-release; I, often erupting in loud, dramatic rage, a jungled-rainstorm at my worst, a turbulent hurricane at my best. Both of our hearts leak freely, and often.

We are both introverts who love working with people. She, the practical, registered caretaker, registered businesswoman, eager to help and hesitant to hurt. I, the almost-writer/almost-musician/almost-girlfriend/almost-a-lot-of-things, nurturing a deep sense of loyalty to lands I've never met, and an impulsive people-person, sometimes saying too much and withdrawing for extended periods of time in hopes of the world forgetting my blunders. We are both within and without ourselves, all at once.

Most importantly, most tragically, and perhaps most admirably, we are both our best and our worst with each other. I am snappy and irritable — a preening princess and arrogant "young adult," demanding quiet and privacy most often when both are easily accessible. I am not who I love. She is fragile and also arrogant, "taking care of things" in a hurried, contagious manner, voicing the day's complaints as readily as I am to retreat to my room when it's too much to handle, as if hoping her perpetually wrinkled brow is carved deep enough for others to empathize without having to ask, she is proud, and serious, and not who she loves.

Despite all of this, we both stay awake until 2am, drinking coffee sometimes just an hour before bed, finding our mutual yearning for peace satisfied in a cup of cheap Folgers, and the way she sometimes sits next to me without saying a word, setting a glass of water next to my stack of books, and I reach out my hand to touch her wrist, the spot where her vein is bluer than most, and look at her to say, "It's okay, I understand, I'm sorry" and she nods, too tired to respond, and we just sit. We sit at the end of the night, at the beginning of the day, caught somewhere between the sun and moon, weighing all our worries on the kitchen table and letting them sit with us, as if they are as unmovable as our love for each other, as if our problems are as quaint and negligible as a sometimes-beautiful still life. My mom and I, we are most alike in that way — when we both just sit.

59 Days

I haven't turned the ringer on in weeks. It's been nice. I wonder why the world (well, at least this side of the Atlantic) starts the days so early. Wake up at 6am, scarfing down a bagel, gulping down hot coffee, crashing at 9pm — talk about tragedy. We all need siestas, don't you think? We too often forget the night! Who are we to devote ourselves to the day so completely that we end up abandoning and neglecting la noche as if she were the unwanted, second-rate sister? I have found that some things are more beautiful at night – like lights...

Makes sense though, doesn't it? That sometimes, it takes the darkness to see the brightest things. Like stars. Great metaphor, isn't it?

A small puddle of milk sits at the bottom of my elephant glass. A few cookie crumbs and chocolate smudges on a tiny plate we use to hold teacups (why do teacups need their own plates, anyway?). Strange; one of the living room cushions that my grandmother left teetering on the armrest somehow found its way halfway between the table and the sofa, and just sits, as well — suspended above the carpet, like someone wanted to build something there, but got bored.

I saw a young man today who looked no older than 17, but he had a beard. A full-grown beard, too, but on one of those faces that will always be boyish and bright. He spoke erratically, sometimes pulling his words out with his hands, then waving them in the air, sort of shoving them at us gently, as if his words refused to speak for themselves – reminded me of when my mom would introduce me to her friends when I was younger, and she would nudge me forward (sort of forcefully, actually), and make me tell them my name. "Joanne," I would say shyly. Then hold up five or six fingers, depending on how old I was/what I felt like saying. I don't think I was even shy when I was younger. I just liked the idea of it.

I like the idea of lots of things, which isn't always bad, contrary to what "they" say. Whoever "they" is. I like the idea of sitting at an outdoor café, people-watching while drinking cold cerveza and eating some obscure Catalonian seafood dish and writing. I like the idea of walking alone at night on old streets, smelling cigarette smoke while hugging myself with a leather jacket.

I also like the idea of bullfighting. I know there are a handful of animal rights issues with bullfighting, which I won't get into (mainly because I honestly don't know enough) — but that is probably why I like the idea of it, and not really the bullfighting itself. Well, I don't know. I've only seen bullfights in movies. But like I said, I like the idea of it — man mating with death, man facing himself and the bull as equals — if only for the fight — then engaging in this dance, this enchanting tease of man's mortality. In a movie I watched recently, the main character said, "One decides to become a bullfighter on an empty stomach." I liked that. Another man in the movie said, "To be a bullfighter, one must like the idea of death" (or something like that). I don't like the idea of death, necessarily — but I like the idea of accepting it.

I do not know why we are so possessive of this life. It is a blessing to be alive, and we should treat it as such — a blessing. We are not enough to take credit for it. We just aren't.

Forgive me, if I'm completely wrong about any of this — seriously, forgive me: this is why I am drawn to Spain. It is a people of tradition, and celebration, sure... but also a people of tragedy. How morbid!, you're thinking. Ha, for a second I imagined what someone else might think, reading that — masses of wandering Spaniards, smoking cigarettes and grimly staring into the night sky, cursing life and all its atrocities! That's not the picture I'm painting here.

I mean to say, a people of tragedy that understands our finitude, and because of this, truly lives. I feel like we try too hard to make a living in America. We are constantly fighting against/for ourselves, trying to live longer, work harder, be better, move faster — and for what? As if we stand a chance against death. If you figure that one out, let me know. Even so, I can't wait to see what is beyond this life.

But for now, in our strange condition, why not really live — why not find work that fulfills us, that sets our hearts on fire or brings our soul to rest, and real peace? Why not fill our days (yes, fill our days, not spend our time) talking over wine and tapas, resting when we feel tired, and really living when we don't?

That said, I haven't even been to Spain yet. So maybe none of this is true. I guess we'll see. For now, I like the idea of it all... don't you?

like I said...

I like the way this city's heart beats. I like the way everyone breathes here, like each breath might be our last, but even if it is, we're going to spend it laughing licking lavender ice cream, sidewalk-sitting amid the city hubbub. I like sharing our Mountain, our green lake, our towering gray edifices that come to life at night, our narrow streets and splashing feet. I like it, a lot.

come to me tenderly in the June night

Frank Sinatra had four wives. Three kids.

I wonder if the last wife was his favorite. I mean, they were married the longest. Or if the first one was. I mean, that's when he released his best songs, after all. Or I wonder if his songs were so enchanting then because he hadn't loved yet. Sometimes, I think the best art comes from being unfulfilled (unfortunately)...

I wonder.

I also wonder if good ole Frankie was involved in the Mafia, like they said he was.

I wonder.


I stand at your gate.
And the song that I sing is of moonlight.
I stand and I wait
For the touch of your hand in the June night.
The roses are sighing a moonlight serenade.

The stars are aglow.
And tonight how their light sets me dreaming.
My love, do you know
That your eyes are like stars brightly beaming?
I bring you, and I sing you a moonlight serenade.

Let us stray 'til break of day
In love's valley of dreams.
Just you and I, a summer sky,
A heavenly breeze, kissin' the trees.

So don't let me wait.
Come to me tenderly in the June night.
I stand at your gate
And I sing you a song in the moonlight.
A love song, my darling, a moonlight serenade

tropical rain

Finally, some silence,
and a book,
and tea,
and home creaks,
and a blanket,
and tired feet,
and a heavy heart
(that smiles)
and I am thinking of you,
and feeling at peace,
for now.